My friend bought a car some months ago. I wasn’t really sure why he bought it. Transport comes to mind but for that the car needs to move first. But that car didn’t move. It just sat there daintily like a prom date. Except that it rusted and prom dates don’t. But I admit it worked beautifully while going downhill.

My friend bought a car some months ago. I wasn’t really sure why he bought it. Transport comes to mind but for that the car needs to move first. But that car didn’t move. It just sat there daintily like a prom date. Except that it rusted and prom dates don’t. But I admit it worked beautifully while going downhill.

Where I come from, a car is a sign on independence. Even if it can’t get from Point A to Point B and your mom has to drop you off at the last minute, a car is a CAR! You can put gas in it and play the stereo really loud!

That, my friends, is the meaning to life.

Marco’s car was ancient. It was some sort of small silver station wagon. But I remember it as four wheels and a choking engine and a grayish-brownish color. It didn’t move much but when it did, it was like riding a drunken camel. It went from side to side and up and down and up and down. The wheels demanded to tread their own individual paths and the engine urged the metal heap forward. It uttered shrill screams as Marco forced it live. Women screamed and grown men wept. Mothers clutched their babes to their breasts. Children threw rocks at it. There was no greater sin than making it move.

I had the misfortune of having a little spin in it. Staying late at university where I study, I was going to walk home (I live with my parents. Yes, I do) when Marco trundled up with his Vehicle of Doom and Disaster.

‘Need a ride?’

I weighed my options. Should I walk and guarantee my safety? Or should I live life on the edge and get in the Car which Came Back from the Grave.

I decided to live dangerously.

I started to have my misgivings when I closed the door. Maybe it was the way the lock snapped shut. Maybe it was the loony grin Marco was giving me. That half-insane smirk at finally having a passenger. The car wasn’t flashy, like the possessed ones in the movies, but I had the feeling that it wished me ill. The seat creaked threateningly beneath me and the tires hissed. The icy black hand of darkness clutched my heart.

Marco revved the engine and we rolled forward. My feeling of foreboding turned into despair. Would I ever see my family again? Would I ever see my unborn children? I wanted to live!

I could not die a virgin.

‘Marco, I’ve kinda changed my mi–’
‘Here we go!’

We rolled forward and I was not happy. The car made its dislike for me felt. But I am glad to say that I survived that journey.

But in the end, Marco’s car didn’t. No, the zombie automobile gave out at some crossroad and got smashed by a trailer, caught fire and exploded.

No, not really. The car rolled down some hill and into a tree. Apparently it was overcome with a desire to flee and cast away the chains that bound it to the service of Man. Particularly Marco. Fortunately I wasn’t in it and neither was he. He had mentioned the hand-brake had been missing for a while.

The moral of the story is that there is no moral. And cars, after they’ve had their little trot, should be smushed and recycled before souls of past evils reside in them to harass the living.